


Bedfellows Less Strange

by LMT



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-07-22 02:11:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7415197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LMT/pseuds/LMT
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How various pairs of people are getting along post season 6.   So far: Petyr & Sansa; Cersei & Qyburn; Sansa & Jon; Gregor & Unella; Hound & Beric; Tormund & Brienne.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Petyr & Sansa

A/N: I have a couple of scenes in mind for after the end of season 6, about how various pairs of people are going to relate to each other.  It may add up to a larger story, or it may not.  First up is Petyr and Sansa.

* * *

 A less experienced man would have stopped dead, but Littlefinger only hesitated.  Still - it was enough.   It was just the slightest hitch in his step, and a quick darting glance to the men on either side of her... but it was enough to tell her that he was afraid.

“Lord Baelish,” she said.  “Thank you for joining us.”

Her tone - calm - seemed to frighten him even more.  His hands disappeared into his sleeves.  “I will always come when you call me, my lady.”

“Mm.”  She pressed her lips together, to show him what she thought of him.  “I called you here because I have a question.  About that... picture you described to me in the godswood.”

“My lady...” He spread his hands like a man making a reasonable request.  As if anything Littlefinger ever did was reasonable in the end!  “I would think that that is a matter better discussed alone.  Wouldn’t you?”

“I trust Jon and I trust Ser Davos.  And they are both men of few words,” she added.  “Our conversation is safe with them.”

“My lady...”

“I _will_ have your answer, my lord.”   As he himself had taught her, it was better not to threaten outright.  But she put as much threat in her voice as she could.

He stood straighter.  “Very well.  My answer to what?”

“That picture,” she said.  “How long, exactly, have you been admiring it?”

She wished he were closer, so that she could read his expression.  As it was she could just barely make out a slight lowering of his brows.  “My lady?”

“How long exactly?” she repeated.  “Was it since the first time you met me - when I was a child, and my mother was still alive?”

“Oh.”  He relaxed.  Hid his hands again.  “No, not at all.  You were a child when I first met you.”

“I just said that,” she said sharply.  He didn’t answer.  “You know what I’m asking you.”

He sighed.  Then came forward, slowly, with a crooked smile.  “Will you really make me do this - in front of your brother?  And this stranger?”

Ramsay would never have allowed someone to treat his requests with such disregard.  She remembered his expression of wide-eyed earnest politeness, and summoned it to her face.  “Would you rather do it in front of the whole castle?”

He sighed again, and then seemed to make his decision.  “All right - have it your way.  Sansa: I love you,” he said.  Harsh and tormented - nothing like the declarations of love she’d always been hoping for.  The tone was off and even the words were plain and pathetic.  But on the other hand, Joffrey and Tyrion and Ramsay had all had plenty of the right words at one time or another.  And look how they had all turned out.

“I loved you from the moment I saw you,” Petyr went on, “Because you were Cat’s daughter, and in a better world you would have been mine.  I wanted to be your uncle, your beloved uncle, I wanted to put a smile on your face because that would have put a smile on Cat’s.  That was all.  The moment I saw you... that was all.”

It was a quiet a moment.  Jon and Davos didn’t move.  None of this was a surprise to them; she had told them everything already.  “Go on.  What then?”

“And then... it changed.”

“When?”

“Later.”

“ _When_?”

“When-.  When I saw-.”   He hissed at the ground - frustrated, it seemed.   “When I saw Joffrey abusing you,” he managed at last.  “When I saw what he wanted.  What the- the other men wanted.  People looked at you and saw a woman, not a girl, and I began to see it too.  I wanted to protect you from them.”

How romantic.  “And take me for yourself.”  She was impressed with her own coldness.

“Sansa.”  He spread his hands again.  “I am giving you the truth.”

He wasn’t very good at begging.  For a moment she wanted to tell Jon to jump over the table and make him do it better.

Then she took a deep breath.  _If they make me like them,_ she told herself firmly, _They win.  Even from the grave, they win._ “Fine,” she said, and set her anger aside.  “I believe you.  I believe you were a friend to my mother, and true to her in your heart.”

“I was.  I swear it.”  So hoarse she could barely hear him.

“And I believe you want to be true to me.”

“I do.”  He sounded so relieved.  “My lady, I swear to you, I will-”

“But.  Listen to me.”  She held up a hand, and he stopped.  “I am _not interested_ in playing your game of thrones.  It’s a dangerous game that has scared and hurt me, and I was thrown into it before I even knew what side anybody was on.  No more.  Do you understand that?  If you want me beside you - if you want me to leave Winterfell, where I’m safe among friends - then you are going to have to make it very easy for me.”

His eyes had narrowed.  “I’m listening.”  Much less romantic now!

“Come to me when you can promise me safety in the capitol.  Come to me when our enemies are all dead.  In short, Lord Baelish, you need to come to me with the game already won.  Come as king, and then fine: I’ll marry you.”

He stared at her.

“Until then, I want you to leave me alone.”

* * *

 

TBC.

 

Let me know what you think!  Next up is probably some Tyrion or some Jon Snow.


	2. Cersei & Qyburn

 

 

* * *

 

She stared up at her canopy in the dark.  So many nights she had lain awake staring at that same canopy, the reasons different perhaps, but still, the canopy was the same.

The cool air on her neck was still new, though.  And it still made her feel dangerously exposed. 

She wouldn’t think of Tommen.  Tommen was a good and sweet boy, and the part of her that had been killed by losing Myrcella after having lost Joffrey already was exhausted.  She had no more mourning left.

What had happened with Jamie... that was loss too, loss of another type, and she couldn’t bear to think of that either.  She had sent for him and he’d refused to come.  _I am your king,_ she would tell him tomorrow.  _For that reason alone you can never refuse me._   It had worked for Robert, hadn’t it?  Jamie would come to her whether he wanted to or not, and he’d lie here in this bed if she demanded it, and stare up at the canopy waiting for it to be over the way she had done for so many years.

“He will come to me.”  She whispered it aloud to herself, and then noticed the perfect silence of the room.  Ser Gregor outside never clanked and shifted, never coughed.  Did he even breathe?

She meditated on the silence until it was broken, by the soft whisper of slippers on the floor in the hall.

Then a knock.  “Your Grace?” 

She rose and pulled a robe on, a heavy scarlet and gold robe even though it hardly mattered - everyone in the castle, everyone in the _city_ had seen her bare.  “Qyburn?”

He giggled as she pulled open her chamber door.  “Of course, Your Grace.  Ser Gregor would admit no one else, you know that.”

“Mm.  You shouldn’t come here at night,” she said, severe with him even though her dark mood was in no way his fault. “Why did you?”

“I was told Your Grace wasn’t sleeping,” he answered calmly.

How had his army of wretched little spies come by that information?  But at this point this point it could not be denied, so she let him in and took a seat.  And poured some wine, because why not.  “Well?”

“Well.”  He seemed pleased with himself.  “I have completed a project I’ve been working on for some time, Your Grace, and I thought you might be cheered to hear about it.”

Good to hear good news, bad that Qyburn knew she needed cheering.  “What project?”

“As you know, Ser Gregor has had some... difficulties, since his... recovery.”  He cleared his throat.  “Chief among them being his apparent lack of speech, but also, he has experienced an inability to, well, to perform some of the natural functions one might expect of a healthy male.”

“I see.”  It was disappointing, but not entirely unexpected.

“As he has been tasked with chastising the former septa,” Qyburn went on, “I thought perhaps it would be helpful if I could restore those natural abilities to him.  I am happy to say...”  He took a small vial out of his sleeve and presented it.  “...That I have succeeded.”

She took a deep drink; the wine was excellent.  “You are telling me you’ve found a way to make Ser Gregor’s cock hard again.”

“Precisely, Your Grace.”

She laughed.  “And that’s what’s in this bottle?  Instant manly domination.”  She shook it gently and held it to the light.  “What do you think would happen if I drank it myself?”

“I’m afraid I have not made any study of the serum’s effects on a female,” Qyburn said, frowning.  “I could, if Your Grace is interested.  The dungeon holds several female prisoners who have not yet participated in any experiments with me, and would suit nicely.”

She took another swallow.  “Why not.  If the results are particularly funny, be sure you come and tell me about them.”

“Of course.”   He bowed but didn’t leave, and she sensed that there was more.  Perhaps something less pleasant - or why would he hesitate.  “Your Grace...”

She was not in the mood to wait.  “Out with it.”

“I did test the serum on mortal _men_.  The serum as well as its twin brother.”  _Twin brother_?  A clear reference to Jamie, _how dare he_ remind her of her humiliation-

“I’m sorry?” she said loudly, over her own thoughts.  He had gone on talking, and she’d missed it.

“I said, Your Grace, that along with the serum I have also perfected its opposite.  _This_ vial will quench the fires of lust, instantly.”  He handed her another bottle.

She toyed with them, trying to judge him, but he was calm.  “I hope it’s not presumptuous of me to offer,” he said into the silence, “But I thought that perhaps you might like to keep these.   In the event Your Grace decides to take a husband, or some other consort, he can be made ready at - and only at - Your Grace’s convenience.”

She drained her glass and pocketed the vials – the love potion and its _twin brother_.  “That could indeed prove useful.  I thank you.”

“I’m honored to serve.  Sleep well, Your Grace.”

If she couldn’t, no doubt he had a remedy for that too.

* * *

TBC.

Yeah, okay, so that definitely wasn’t Jon Snow or Tyrion.  My bad, sorry.  Maybe next time.

Let me know what you think!   What other pairs?

 

 


	3. Jon & Sansa

Some Jon & Sansa.

* * *

Jon didn’t have much news to contribute: he could update her on the likely fate of Uncle Benjen and give her a thirdhand report that that Bran, some time ago, was alive.  That was it.

Sansa, though, knew more.  She told him about what had happened to Father… or, told him most of it.  He could tell she was holding something back, something serious, something that made her feel guilty. 

Surely whatever it was had been an accident; Sansa was a decent person and didn’t have an evil heart.  (That hadn’t stopped her from withholding information that got _hundreds of people killed_ during the battle, but he didn’t blame her for that.  The command was his, the strategy was his, and consequently the slaughter that had resulted was on his head.).

He didn’t push her for more information about Father since it seemed to hurt her so much.  And he didn’t ask what had happened to Lady Catelyn and Robb; he’d heard stories enough to know the basics.

Their sister, though…  “What about Arya?” he asked.  “I heard she ran when they took Father’s head, but since then, nothing.”

She shrugged.  “Brienne claims she saw her – recently.  After Aunt Lysa- my Aunt Lysa, my mother’s sister, after she died Brienne was a few miles from the Bloody Gate and ran into a girl traveling alone with a man.  The girl was Arya, she says, and the man…”  A nervous swallow.

He tried to will away the pit in his stomach.  “What did he do?”

Sansa looked startled.  “Oh- no no, not that.  The man was _protecting_ her, he said, and Arya said so too.  But… he was someone known to be, you know, _trouble_ , so Brienne tried to get her to-”

“Known?  Who was he?”

“You don’t-… oh no wait, you _do_ know him, he came to Winterfell with King Robert before any of this started.  Sandor Clegane – the Hound.  Remember?”

“The Hound.”  He remembered a scarred, surly bodyguard who glared and drank and made wreckage of all the knights on the practice field.  He had to laugh.  “Of course Arya would take up with the bloody Hound.”

Sansa laughed too.  “It is very _her_ , isn’t it?  She hasn’t changed.  Brienne says she’s still practicing with her awful little sword too.”

It was so long ago – and literally from another lifetime – but of course he remembered.  “I gave her that sword.  When she left Winterfell.  She named it-”

“-Needle,” Sansa finished with him.  “I know.”  Then her shy little smile faded.  “But anyway Brienne couldn’t convince her to leave, and the Hound wouldn’t stand down, and they fought.  He died and Arya ran off.  No one’s heard from her since.”

He blinked.  “I don't understand.  Arya managed to get one of the most dangerous men in the Seven Kingdoms to protect her… and Brienne took him away?”

“It’s-, it wasn’t like that,” she sputtered, “the Hound is more than dangerous.  You don’t know, he, he, he’s not good like us.  He’s done awful things.”

It was something a child might say, and it frightened him.  He needed allies, not more children to protect.   “Sansa, _I’m_ not good,” he told her at once.  “ _I’ve_ done awful things.  I killed Qhorin Halfhand.  I killed my own steward.”  _I let Ygritte kill my sworn brothers because I didn’t have it in me to kill her first, and of all of them she is the one I still mourn._

“No.  You don’t know awful.”  Her voice was shaking.  “I’ve known awful people.  I was _married_ to an awful person.  The Hound was bad, like them.  He shouldn’t be around our little sister.”

“I do know awful,” he told her quietly.  “I know Crastor, who raped his own daughters, and I know the men who killed him and raped those same girls again.  I know the Thenns – they eat people and glory in it.  And I know the army of the dead.  Now listen.”  He had more to say than just a litany of awfulness, and he waited until he had her eyes.  “To resist that army, I will _ally_ with the Thenns, and anyone else I can get hold of, because that’s the world we live in now.  Arya did the smart thing.  The _right_ thing.  It’s why she’s still alive.”

Still she shook his head, stubborn.  “She’s better off without him.”

“Why?”  Jon racked his brain.  He’d seen the man drunk and drinking, swearing and bullying people, but mostly... mostly just trailing after his master like an ill-tempered old dog.  “Don’t you think that whatever awfulness you saw was direct orders from that little shit Joffrey Baratheon?” he pointed out.  “Who wasn’t a Baratheon at all by the way, if Stannis has it right.”

“That’s no excuse.”

“It is.  If you’re sworn to obey, you obey.”

“I don’t believe that.”  Her face was red and she looked like she might cry.  “Joffrey told people to hit me and torment me and _no one_ told him no.  No one said, _that’s wrong and I won’t do it._   Are you telling me you agree with them?”

He winced.  “I’m sorry people mistreated you.”  He didn’t drop his eyes.  “But you should know that when I was Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, and men said no to me, I executed them.”

Her eyes widened.  “Jon…”  She looked stricken now.

But there was no room for weakness, so he held her eyes and went on.  “One I beheaded,” he said, “The way Father used to do.  The others I hanged.”  Her mouth moved but she couldn’t seem to find words.  “It’s the world we live in, Sansa.  Even people who want to do good have to get their hands dirty.”  He reached across the table and touched her.  “We have to be strong.  For ourselves, and for all of the living.”

“The living.”  Her voice was harder now, and she pulled away from him.  “They call you the White Wolf, you know.  _Your_ white wolf is named Ghost.  Do you think that’s a coincidence?”

Cold and cutting – _there_ was the Sansa of his childhood.  He made a face.  “We have to be _strong_ , I said.  I didn’t say we have to be mean to one another on purpose.”

After a moment she relaxed.  “You’re right.  You’re right, Jon, and I’m sorry.  You’re my brother, and we are on the same side.  Now and always.”  She reached out to him.

Her white glove was smudged where he’d held it.  He managed a smile.  “Look at that,” he said, “You’ve got your hands dirty already.”

* * *

TBC.

The Hound remains my favorite.  Two years later and I’m still mad at Brienne.  :-)

Next is Gregor & Unella.  Sorry, people.


	4. Gregor & Unella

A/N:  Unella & Gregor.  (I mean, it’s  _about_ Unella & Gregor, but the conversation is with Cersei.  I sort of thought Gregor wouldn’t be much of a conversational partner.)

* * *

Cersei held the goblet up a moment, savoring.  Then she slopped out some wine, a generous glug, and the septa came to life with a jerk and splutter.

She smiled down.  “Hello.”

Now conscious again, the septa was conscious of her pain; she was twitching and moaning, writhing weakly in her chains.

She was trying to speak.  “What?”  Cersei said.  “I can’t hear you.  You were loud enough shouting _shame shame shame_ all those times… Did you injure your voice perhaps?”  She took a sip herself.

The septa tried again, agitated and fearful, and this time it was intelligibly: “Has he gone?”

“Who, Ser Gregor?”  She laughed.  “No, sadly for you he’s just finishing up a patrol.  He'll return shortly.”

“He'll return.  Good.”  Unella relaxed.  Her eyes closed and her lips stretched into a bloody smile.  _She’s gone mad._ “Praise the gods, praise _all_ of the gods, blessed be those who have offered me this holy ordeal.”  Her eyes opened, and incredibly, they were sane and focused.  “Even you, Cersei Lannister.  Such a sinner you are, but even you have served the gods’ purpose.”

 _She **must** be mad, however clear her gaze.  _“What are you talking about?” she said, with some irritation.  While the blood and bruises were a pleasure to see, what she really wanted was abject despair.  Not this pious bleating about praising the gods.  “I already told you, the gods have abandoned you.  There is nothing holy in this _world_ – let alone in this room.  Here, for you, there is only pain – and the basest violence of a man who can’t even-”

“ _No._   Not a man.”  The septa arched up.  “You were right: he _is_ a god.  He is the Stranger in the flesh.”  _Mad after all!_   “I am in the hands of a god.”

“Are you-…?”

“I have known human malice,” the wretch went on, “But this is wholly different.  The Stranger is lifeless desolation – and he is sacred.  These wounds are blessings.  _I have been blessed by a god’s own hand,_ sinner.  We of the faith, we pray our whole lives for but a vision of what I have experienced.”

Even with her eyes swollen and nose crooked and teeth missing, even through the crust of old black blood that covered all, Cersei could see that she looked radiantly happy.  _That hideous smile has to go._   “Is it holy when he fucks you?” she said, vicious.  “He’s not a god, you lunatic, he is less than human.  He’s a beast in the skin of an evil man, the lowest creature ever to walk the earth, and you are here to serve his lowest needs.”

“You don’t understand,” Unella said, still smiling.  “Of course you don’t.  I didn’t either.  None of us did; we worshipped the Seven but really only comprehended six of Them.  The Stranger was always _else_.  So hard for us to grasp.  He takes us, destroys us, with no ill will at all.  He is no more _low_ or _evil_ than the Father, blessed be his name.  Blessed be _both_ their names.”

Cersei poured more wine into the bitch’s face, but even _that_ was unsatisfying: it washed away some of the blood, and also made her goblet run low.  “You may be fooling yourself, but you aren’t fooling me,” she declared.  “I think I’ll stay here and watch him fuck you.  See how holy it really is.”

The pronouncement was meant to win silence, but it drew a long ranting lecture instead.  “Congress with the gods is the holiest of all,” the wreck insisted.  “We all dream of it.  Every septon has gone to sleep to imagine holding close the Maid, every septa has longed for the Warrior’s embrace.”  Was that madness in her bright eyes after all?  “But you are not worthy to see the Stranger work his will!”  Scolding, even now.  “It is sin for you even to look upon him, with your blasphemous unrepentant heart.  _Shame._   Shame is upon you, more than ever.”

Cersei sacrificed the rest of her wine, wished she had enough to drown the hag entirely.  “I think I’ll have him tear out your tongue.”

The septa coughed a while before answering.  “Do what you like.  Our prayers and praises reach the gods whether or not we speak them aloud.”

“Prayers and praises?  Is that what you’re planning to-”  They were interrupted by a banging on the door.  Cersei watched the septa shudder, close her eyes, and start to cry.  _Now we’re getting somewhere,_ she thought, and settled in for the show.  The septa’s terror lifted her mood, as did the casual blow Gregor dealt with his mailed fist before he even took his helmet off.

The good mood was short-lived though, because then Gregor started working but even during the very worst of it, prayers and praises were all that came out of the bitch’s mouth.

* * *

TBC.

Sorry bout that.


	5. Lord Beric & the Hound

Lord Beric & the Hound

* * *

Beric was stripping down for a wash.  He thought he was alone, until out of nowhere came the harsh growl of the Hound.  “The fuck happened to you?”

“What?”  He turned.  The scars were striking of course, but confusion from _this_ man was silly.  “This one you gave me yourself,” he reminded.  “Surely it was a fight worth remembering?  Even for men who fight a lot.”

Clegane set down the guard he’d been cleaning and rose from his rock to approach.  “Healed clean,” he mused.  “I thought I’d killed you.”

“You did kill me.”  Beric was no stranger to disbelief.  “But I came back.  You _must_ have heard about me, Clegane.”  He reached out and patted the broad shoulder.  “I didn’t take up with the Red God for no reason.  I was killed and he _brought me back_ – he is, actually, the one true god.”

“Oh, for-”

“Look at this.  And this.”  He showed the scars one by one; no experienced warrior could misinterpret them.  “Seven times now, I’ve been dead and back.”

“The fuck you have,” Clegane insisted, but he was studying the scars closely and frowning.  Even wincing a little.

Beric let him look.  “What happened to _you?_ ” he asked after a while.  He didn’t remember Sandor Clegane as a man who had any sympathy for other people’s war wounds.

“Hm?  The same, mostly.”  He moved away and resumed his seat.  “Bad fight and left for dead.  _Bad_ fight,” he repeated, shaking his head.  He was staring down at the water.  “I looked her in the face and begged for death.  Begged her to finish it.”  His eyes snapped up suddenly.  “ _Me_ – begged.”

 _Her?_ But he knew better than to ask; this was the most and friendliest he’d ever heard from the Hound and surely a question like that would end it.  Instead he just said, easily: “Doesn’t sound nice.  Sorry to hear it.”

“Mm.  Well a septon found me – the one your prick brothers went ahead and butchered – and nursed me back.  It was a close one, but here I am.”

“Here you are.”  He still wanted to ask about _her_ … but perhaps another day.  “That’s not what I asked, though.  I asked what _happened_ to you.  You’ve changed.”

Clegane’s eyes flickered to his a moment and then he looked down.  Didn’t even bother with any denials.  “Ray – that septon – says a brush with death’ll do that to you.  Well,” he amended, snorting, “He said, _the touch of the Stranger,_ but I suppose you red people rather leave the Stranger out of it.”

He laughed.  “The Stranger may have _touched_ you, but me he’s fucked right in the ass, seven times now, and I can tell you it damn well doesn’t do anything like that.  It’s the opposite,” he added, when it seemed Clegane didn’t understand.  “Every time I come back I’m _less_.  Less of _me_.  I’m just _here_ , just marching on…”  Even the explanation was _less._   He could recount it matter-of-factly now, and hardly remembered how much it used to distress him.  “But I’m less in _here._ ”  He touched himself on the chest, then gave a sharp look.  “You?  You’re _more_.”

Clegane shrugged, sour, but said nothing.

There was only one thing that changed a man for the better and left him looking like that.  “Was it a girl?”

Snort.  “Aye.  A girl.”

“Gone now?”

“Gone.”

“Sorry to hear it,” he said again.

Clegane was quiet a while.  Then: “Did the red god really bring you back?”

“Aye.  Seven times.”

“ _Really_?”

“Really.”

He chewed that over.  “If I hadn’t bloody killed you myself I wouldn’t believe the stories.”  He sighed.  “So happens I did though, and I do.  But.  You’re not the only corpse I’ve heard walks Westeros these days.”

“Ah.”  Beric had known it would only be a matter of time.  “I assume you’re referring to your brother.”

“Aye.  Him.”  Clegane spat on the ground.  “You know anything about that?”

“Only rumors.”

“You haven’t… seen him on the other side, or anything?”

Beric wondered if he was joking.  But the Hound didn’t joke much, and about Ser Gregor he seemed even more earnest than usual.  “No.  It doesn’t work like that.”

“Mm.  Well… do you think he’s like you – or like me?”

“Like…?”

Clegane leaned down and picked up the rag he’d been polishing with.  “Do you think he’s immortal, thanks to some stupid cunt of a god like yours… or do you think he’s just a very big bastard who’s very hard to kill?”  He went back to his work.

Beric considered.  He’d fought both Clegane brothers before, and while this one was nowhere near the size or strength of the Mountain he was still big, and strong, and a ferocious fighter.  _And the red god is not done with him yet._

“I don’t know,” he said at last.  “Are you saying you’d like to try and find out?”

A nod.  “Might be he only lived, and barely, because he got lucky – like me.  Might even be he’s crippled now – like me.  Might be I finally get to give him what he deserves.”

 _Good luck with that._   He remembered the feel of the bones breaking when Gregor got hold of him.  “Might be.  But let’s be honest: you’re in no shape to face the Mountain just now.”

“Don’t I know it.”  Clegane scowled.  “So fine: I’ll ride with you shits for a while.  Killing even worse shits.”

“We’re glad to have you.”  He realized, after he’d said it, that it was true.  “I’ll even help you train – I know what it’s like to pick up a sword again after an injury.”

“Bet you fucking do.”  His eyes narrowed.  “But so’s we’re clear: I won’t worship fire.   And I won’t be friendly.”

“Understood.”

“I haven’t changed _that_ much.”

* * *

TBC.

Next comes... Brienne and Tormund!  OTP!

Let me know what you think so far, or if there's other pairs you'd like to see.  These are fun to write.


	6. Tormund & Brienne

Tormund & Brienne – OTP haha!!

* * *

Brienne was trying to eat dinner, but the bearded wildling was – again – staring at her.  At last she laid down her fork.  “What?”

“Nothing.”  He stopped staring, and skewered a piece of meat with his knife. 

“Why are you always looking at me?” she said, irritated.  “It makes me uncomfortable.” 

He laughed down at his plate.  “People do say that.”  Had he taken it as a _compliment?_ “I’m Tormund Giantsbane.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” she said through grit teeth, because it wouldn’t be proper not to.  “I am Brienne of Tarth.”

“I know.  Right.”  He didn’t seem to have anything to say to her.

…And, apparently guessing as much, the spearwife on his other side leaned forward.  “Why don’t you tell her about the bear you didn’t fuck,” she snorted.

Tormund turned to her to snarl.  “I did what I say I did, woman.  And if you don’t want to hear about it, then maybe you should fuck off.”

Brienne watched, speechless, as the spearwife and her friends left the table.  Now she and Tormund were alone – and he was still staring at her.

For the avoidance of all doubt, she told him: “I don’t want to hear about that bear either.”

“All right.”  He thought a moment, then ventured something else.  “So: you, uh, you’re with the Ice Queen?”

Brienne blinked.  “She doesn’t like that title.  She goes by Lady Stark – her proper name.”

It was almost the most she’d ever said to him, and he seemed to take the words as encouragement.  “D’you think she’s fucking Lord Snow?”

“ _What_?”

“I said, do you think-”

“-I heard what you _said_ , I just-…”  She caught herself and tried to tame her anger.  _The wildlings are simple people,_ she reminded herself.  _They don’t employ any courtesies, and they don’t necessarily mean vulgarity as disrespect._ “The answer is no,” she said at last.  “Lady Sansa is not having relations with King Jon.  They are brother and sister.”

“Aye, but that don’t seem to bother you southerners none, does it?”  Tormund winked at her.  “I’ve heard you all breed brother to sister sometimes – that’s why southerners are so weak.”  His wild eyes crinkled – was he smiling?  “But I don’t think _you_ were sired by no brother.  You’re much woman.”

 _A compliment.  That’s meant to be a compliment._   “I, um, I thank you,” she said.  Why was she stammering – why were her cheeks hot?  “Yes, my parents are… they’re not related.”

“Mm.  So you don’t think _Lady Stark_ and the White Wolf howl at the moon together?”

The implication was vulgar but the imagery made her want to laugh.  “No, I-… I don’t think that.”

“But they’re together _all the time._ ”  Now he was overearnest, and she could hear the smile in his voice (though his expression was as fearsome as ever).  He was _teasing_ her.  “They eat together, they ride together… I hear they even use the shithouse together sometimes.”

“I don’t think they use the shithouse together,” she said, allowing a bit of a smile as she shook her head at him.  “And I don’t think that spending time together means anything strange.  _I_ spend almost every waking moment with the Lady Sansa too.”

“Mm.  Are _you_ fucking her?”

She scolded him with her eyebrows, and he laughed.

“So,” he said after a moment of silence.  “If not the Ice Queen… do you run with some southern man?”

How had _this_ topic come up?  She would almost rather listen to further impudence about Lady Sansa.  She shook her head.

“Why’s that?” he pressed.  “They’re all too weak for you, no?”

Shrug.  _That, and they wouldn’t have me anyway; the closest anyone’s come to **thinking** about bedding me is when Jamie joked that he almost mistook me for a Lannister once._   But she crushed that thought down; it was bitter and unworthy (and impossible!).

“Well like I said,” Tormund said into his ale, “You’re much woman.”  His tone was casual, but the words were anything but.  “If it wasn’t for this shoulder and these ribs and this fucking leg, I’d carry you off myself.”

“Anyone tries to _carry me off_ I’ll put a sword through his chest,” she said at once, before her mind caught up with her.  _That was another compliment,_ she realized too late.  _That’s what they do instead of favors and poetry; he’s making wildling love to you right here at the table._

She glanced over – why was eye contact suddenly so difficult? – and saw that Tormund looked as pink as she felt.  “I know you’d put up a good fight,” he assured.  “But when I get well again I’ll take my chances.”

 _Where I come from,_ she almost told him, _one doesn’t woo women by promising to rape them._   But where she came from one didn’t woo big ugly swordswomen at all, so she decided not to say anything about southern customs of courtship.

She just drank her water, and wondered how long it was before she could leave the table.  Was it rude to leave the king’s lame lieutenant to eat alone?

“In the meantime,” Tormund said after a while, “If we want it bad enough, I guess _you’re_ just going to have to carry off _me._ ”

* * *

TBC.

Just can’t resist those two hahaha. 

Who’s next?  I’m thinking somebody in Dany’s crew…

 

 


	7. Tyrion & Dany

Tyrion & Dany

* * *

Daenerys stood at the railing, looking out at the horizon.  She knew people said that she stationed herself there because she liked to keep her eye on the prize ahead… and she let them say it, because the real reason was much less glamorous: if she watched the horizon, she was seasick less often.

Tyrion Lannister (a _Lannister_ in her service.  She could still hardly believe it) lurched up to her and leaned backwards against the railing – wine in hand, as always.  “This is much better than my last journey across the sea,” he said.  “Did I ever tell you about that?  I rode in a crate.”

“Yes,” she said shortly.  He’d told her more than once, actually.  Possibly the wine had drowned his brain.

“Oh.”  He was quiet a moment, then gestured – with the goblet.  “Do you think they’re going to marry one another?”

_A queen should not vomit on her Hand._   “What?”

“Them.”  He pointed but she didn’t turn to look.  “Missandei and Grey Worm.  _Torgo Nudho,_ ” he added, enunciating carefully but still his accent grated on the ear.

She tried to pay attention to his words.  “Missandei and Grey Worm – marry?” she repeated.  “Why would they?  He can’t give her children, can he?”

She realized what a stupid thing she’d said the moment it was out of her mouth, and Tyrion seemed to notice too – he gave her a sideways look.  “Must husband and wife give one another children?” he asked, light and casual.  “Is that the only purpose to marriage?”

She nodded to show that she’d taken his point – and that she appreciated the delicacy with which he had corrected her.  She spoke with confidence about ruling and about Westeros, because Jorah Mormont had been right that it was the only way to receive respect from the men around her, but she was wise enough to know that she had a lot to learn about both.

“Do you think they _want_ to marry?” she said.

“Grey Worm would be a fool not to propose it.  She’s a beautiful woman, and kind, and very intelligent – and they seem to love one another.”

_Beautiful woman._   It was strange, to think of her softspoken counselor as a man who would notice such things.  She’d heard that dwarfs were low and lecherous, but if this one was seeking out any lechery he was doing it out of her presence.

Which made her wonder: “Are _you_ planning to marry?  There’s no reason why the Hand of the Queen can’t have a wife, is there?”

“I-, um.”  He cleared his throat and took a long sip of his wine.  “I _am_ married, Your Grace – or at least I was.”  He said it into his glass.  “My father had me wed Sansa Stark.  With any luck the poor girl’s managed to have it annulled.”

She was surprised enough to hear that he’d been married, but the way he said the name told her that he expected it to _mean_ something.  “Sansa Stark,” she repeated.  She struggled to remember _;_ Viserys had ranted at her obsessively about Westerosi families for years, but she’d always been so busy trying to calm him down that she’d hardly retained a thing.  “The Starks were allies of the Usurper.  They are... from the North.”

He sucked in his breath.  “Your Grace… how best to put this.”  She gave him eyebrows – he’d better find a way to put it politely.  “Um.”

Finally she spared him the trouble.  “Yes I _know._   But in Slaver’s Bay I was _busy_ ,” she reminded irritably, “And now I can’t sit in my cabin reading books and maps.  I’ll vomit all over them.”

“An unfortunate-”

“So you’ll just have to teach me,” she said over him.  He looked pained.  “You’ll tell me everything, about everyone.  I’ll study every day – beginning now.”

“Your Grace…”

There was no need for threats where generosity would serve as well.  “You may drink while you’re teaching.”

He bowed to her, and uncapped a wineskin to refill himself.  “As you command.”

* * *

TBC.

The more I think about it, _how_ is Dany planning on ruling a diverse and complicated kingdom she knows nothing about?  Or is she planning on just having the Dothraki raze the place and replace everything with horse culture?

I’m working on an Arya/Melisandre bit.


	8. Jamie & Brienne

 

A/N:  I’d intended this to come somewhere later in this collection, but I’m in a mood today and wanted something fluffy.  So:  Jamie & Brienne, in King’s Landing.  Didn't take much time to polish this one, sorry.  Hope it's fun anyway!

 

* * *

 

Instead of requesting her presence for a formal meeting he went to her rooms.  Alone, unannounced, totally against all protocol… but he supposed that they were beyond such things.  

She answered the door herself, and he bowed.  “Lady Brienne.”

But his smile faded when he saw her face: she was seething.  “You.  What have I done to you,” she bit out, “That you would treat me with such disrespect?”

He blinked rapidly.  Cocked his head.  “Disrespect?”  He’d had her received with all possible honors, even though she was here to represent an enemy pretender, he’d quartered her in the best-

“ _Brienne the Pure?_ ”  She practically spat it at him.

“Oh.  That.”  What a stupid nickname - of course it would have stuck, he realized with irritation.  And of _course_ it would offend.  “I didn’t mean it that way,” he assured fast.  “I wasn’t referring to your, you know, your status.  I just meant… pure of heart… pure of intentions… purely bloody impossible, Brienne, come _on._ ”  He followed her as she tried to turn away from him, brushing a hand against her arm, not quite daring to grab her.  “I meant nothing by it.  I swear to you.”  He was trying hard to pacify her; this might be the only opportunity he had to see her privately while she was in the city.  And he liked her.  Against all odds.  “I was in my cups, I wasn’t thinking, I muttered something and I had no idea people would even remember it.  Brienne, I swear.  I meant no offense.  I give you my word.”

“Your word.”

“Yes.”  He cleared his throat hard; it was thick.  “There was a time you trusted my word.”

“I still do.”  She turned to face him, making her hard pitiless eye contact.  “Fine.  I believe you.”  She stepped aside to let him in, and closed the heavy door easily behind him.  “But I don’t appreciate your setting me up for any further mockery.”  Now she no longer sounded angry - just stiff and prim with offense.  “As if I don’t already face enough.”

“I didn’t-...”  He frowned.  “Mockery?  I thought purity was supposed to be a good thing, for a woman.”

He couldn’t read her irritable shrug, and found himself babbling into the silence.  “I mean, I suppose _I_ would be annoyed if I weren’t getting any, but then, I’m-...”  _Not,_ he remembered suddenly.  Most days he managed not to think about it.

“You’re a _man,_ ” she finished for him, rolling her eyes, not seeming to notice his pause.  “It’s different.”  She sighed.  “I’m not annoyed.  But the implication of purity in a woman my age is that no man wants to woo her.  The implication is true in my case,” she added, “Which I suppose is why it hurts.”

 _Hurts._   He was amazed she’d confessed it in front of him.  “Oh, come, you’re a famous warrior,” he deflected uneasily.  “And famously loyal.  Surely you’ve got suitors knocking down your door.  And if not, you can always just drag them off and rape them.  It’s how a lot of the men do it.”

She gave him a _look_.  It was a dark scowl that made him laugh, which made him realize that it had been a long time since he’d laughed like this, without cruelty.

“Really,” he insisted eventually.  “Why?  I want to know.”

She shrugged, blushing, and looked away.

“ _Why_?”  He could get it out of her somehow.  Honest people were terrible about keeping secrets.

Sure enough, she spilled all at once.  “Because I know what my maidenhead is worth!”  She gestured helplessly at him.  “I know what you sacrificed to protect it.  I have found no man worthy of such a gift, and I would not cheapen it.”

“Oh.  That’s-...”  He didn’t know what to say, so settled for honesty.  “...Not what I expected,” he finished at last.  Speaking up for Brienne had indeed been what cost him, but he didn’t think of his hand as something he’d sacrificed _intentionally._  He wasn’t sure if it would feel better, or worse.   Actually he would rather not think of his hand at all.  “I had no idea my disaster was keeping you celibate,” he purred instead. “I’m so terribly sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter.”  She was muttering to the floor now.  “I’ve grown used to celibacy now; I don’t mind it.”

“Well... well that’s not right!”  _You should talk._ He hadn’t so much as _looked_ at a woman since Cersei. But he ignored himself, tackling her problem with energy instead.  “Come, that’s no way for a warrior to live.  Let’s get you bedded.  We’ll find you some nice, strapping young lad who-”

“I don’t want one,” she snapped.

“Very well.  Elder statesman type then, powerful, iron-grey hair and-”

“I don’t want that either.  I said-”

“Then I’ll just have to bed you myself.”  He froze.  He’d proposed it merrily, lightly, just to be contrary-... but as soon as the words were out of his mouth Brienne’s eyes leaped to his and he remembered that she didn’t understand humor.

They looked at each other a long time.  “You’re joking,” she recognized at last.  “Please don’t joke about that; it’s not kind.”  _Not kind_?  So she did want him.  He’d never been sure.  “Anyway, I thought you said you kept faithful to your sister?”

“I do.  I, I did,” he corrected.  “I did until she... changed.”  All levity was gone from the room and he didn’t even try to bring it back.  “And since her, there has been no one.”

As he recalled she’d always been disgusted by his relationship with Cersei… but after a moment, she managed a diplomatic response.  “I’m sorry you’re suffering.”

He blinked.  _I’m not,_ he realized.  How strange.  “No, it’s all right,” he said.  “It’s-... it’s right.  She was my everything and she shouldn’t have been, I know that.  Perhaps I’ve known it for a long time.”  It was hard, too hard, to talk about Cersei.  “I mean it though,” he pressed instead – it was easier.  “Do you want to?”

“Do I want to what?  Bed you?”  Her voice was all exasperation, but her pink cheeks told another story.

He nodded.  “It does seem to make sense,” he pointed out, “If you’ve refused all others out of consideration for me.  Misguided consideration, I might add.”  He shook his head.  “I didn’t mean to lock you in a chastity belt.  You wear enough armor as it is.”

“I-, I, _no,_ it does not make sense,” she sputtered.  “For one thing what would be the point?  I’m-, we’re, we, we’re both completely unqualified to please one another.”

At least she knew what the point of fucking was!  He’d been half afraid she thought it was for procreation alone.  He waved it off.  “So we’ll please ourselves.  That should work.  Brienne, come here: kiss me.”

“No.”  She stepped back.  “Are you mad?”

“Just kiss me.  We’ll see how it goes.”

“No!”

He put a hand on her neck - and tightened it when she tried to pull away.  “Are you really going to fight me?” he pouted.  “Me - a cripple?  Talk about _not kind_.”

“Jamie...”

“Just a kiss.  Just a kiss, that’s all.”

He leaned close to her, very close.  She didn’t tilt her head; she didn’t move at all.  “Just a kiss, that’s all?” she repeated with suspicion.  “Your word?”

He laughed against her mouth.  “No,” he said, and tilted her head by force.  She let him.

* * *

**TBC.  I feel bad for Jaime.  Cersei creeps me out.  Let me know what you think!**


	9. Tyrion / Jon

_Lord Snow,_

_It has been some time since we last met and I rode to the Wall with you.  Since then much has happened, to put it mildly.  We have both lost our fathers, and the world has lost its mind._

_I am told that my sister sits the Iron Throne.  I know her well, and I fully understand why you have risen up in rebellion against her._

_Daenerys Targaryen, the Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons, is coming to unseat her.  Understand that I am in full support; Daenerys has a legitimate claim to the throne while Cersei has none, and more importantly, unlike Cersei she is a good person who will rule wisely and well._

_I remember you as a good and honorable boy; I hope you have become a good and honorable man.  I write to ask whether you will support Queen Daenerys too.  I know that the Northmen have begun calling you King, but we both know that (1) you don’t actually want to be a king, (2) the Wall needs more than the North alone can give it, and (3) the last thing anyone needs right now is another civil war.  You would be well served by making peace with Queen Daenerys promptly._

_We will soon reach Westeros and engage Lannister forces.  Our campaign will be significantly easier if you join with us to attack from the North, or stay out of the fray entirely.  If you instead undertake to join with Cersei against us, Daenerys’s armies and her dragons will kill you all, and our campaign will be a success anyway._

_While the Seven Kingdoms are hers by right and will become hers by conquest if necessary, Queen Daenerys has indicated that she is willing to meet with you to discuss the status of the North, if you now cooperate with her._

_We look forward to your response.   You may address communication to the Queen directly, or to me, Tyrion Lannister, her Hand._

_Tyrion Lannister_

_P.S.  Tell my wife I say hello._


End file.
